


an empty apartment

by flirtingwithtrackers



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Phone Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/pseuds/flirtingwithtrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bellamy is away for a few months and clarke misses him</p><p>or, the one with phone sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	an empty apartment

**Author's Note:**

> petition for courtney to write a phone sex fic made by [oktevia](http://oktevia.tumblr.com) ;))
> 
> and a big thanks to my wonderful beta [lea](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com), who is a shining star
> 
> HOPE YOU ENNNNJOYYYY

“Hello?” Clarke’s voice is tentative, nervous, as she answers the phone.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says fondly. Her heart swells at the sound of his voice. She hasn’t seen him in weeks and her whole body aches for him, her fingers clenching tightly around her cell phone and her eyes falling shut as he speaks.

“I miss you,” he says immediately, his voice carrying the same ache, the same incompleteness that has settled deeper and deeper in her chest the longer they have to be apart. She loves that he gets to follow his passion researching for his dissertation at Yale for a couple of months—but she hates coming home to an empty apartment and a cold bed.

“I miss you, too,” she whispers into the receiver, her voice cracking.

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Bellamy speaks again.

“I wish you were here with me.”

He sounds so genuine, his voice warm, but there’s a heat in his words. Desire tinges the edges of his voice and Clarke is reminded why she was nervously sitting around only moments before, fingers playing with the lace of her lingerie as she waited for his phone call. They had planned this, picking a time when they were both alone–especially after Clarke had called him a week after he left, tipsy off wine and unable to get off alone, begging him to help. Bellamy talked her to orgasm over the phone in heated whispers leaning against the empty stall of the library bathroom. He walked back to his study table hoping the undergrads scattered around him wouldn’t notice the bulge in his jeans or the flush that reddened his complexion.

She knows she should use this as her opening, reply with a  _Why, what would you do to me?_ but her nerves are getting the better of her, even as desire seeps down her limbs. Clarke takes a deep breath, smiling slightly as she exhales, reminding herself that this is  _Bellamy_. She has nothing to be nervous about.

“I, uh, took a picture,” she says quietly. “Just in case you needed reminding.”

A nervous flutter persists in her gut as she thinks of the picture she took with the help of Raven, of course, who couldn’t stop laughing at Clarke’s flustered embarrassment as she posed in her lingerie, trying to look sexy and making Raven simultaneously laugh and assure her Bellamy would love them. She relaxes, smiling fondly, when Bellamy’s rich laugh filters through.

“I’m pretty sure I remember just how sexy you are, but a visual is always welcome, princess.”

She can hear his smirk and she’s reminded of what an  _ass_  her boyfriend can be.

“You’re an ass,” she laughs, taking the phone away from her ear to send him the photo anyway. Clarke can hear when he gets the message—a groan into the receiver—and she laughs again.

“Now I  _really_  wish you were here with me,” Bellamy says earnestly to her, and Clarke rolls her eyes, smiling stupidly at her phone. It makes her heart hurt for a short moment, makes her wish he was home with her. She misses him with every fiber of her being.

She closes her eyes, listening to his breathing, trying to imagine him in bed next to her. Clarke hates sleeping alone—being alone in this big bed they finally bought together after fighting in one of those fake rooms at Ikea. She’s startled when Bellamy speaks again, his voice rough and deep, vibrating in her ear.

“I really love this picture, Clarke. You look beautiful,” he says lovingly. It makes her blush while also sending a shiver of arousal down her body.

“Where’s my picture?” she teases, not really sure whether or not she’s joking. Clarke decides she’s not when he sends her a photo of his bare chest and boxers, his half-hard cock bulging through the dark fabric.

“ _Oh._ ”

“God, your breasts look perfect,” Bellamy groans lightly and Clarke imagines he’s still looking at the photo, his hand placed on his toned stomach just above the waistband of his boxers. She lifts a hand, palming a breast experimentally through the red lace, imagining it’s Bellamy’s much larger, much warmer hand. 

She moans when the pad of her thumb rubs over the hardened peak of her nipple, getting Bellamy’s attention quite quickly.

“Are you touching them?” Bellamy asks, a smile in his voice, probably amused by her eagerness.

“Yes,” she admits quietly. 

“You know how much I love your breasts. They fit perfectly in my hands, so full and soft,” his voice lilts. Clarke squeezes lightly at his words. “And they taste perfect too.” She moans then, quietly but she can hear Bellamy breath out heavily. “And the noises you make when I suck on them,” he continues, “until they’re red and swollen.”

She pinches at her nipple, missing the warmth of his mouth on her.

Clarke’s other hand drifts down her stomach, following the aching desire pulling into her core. She hears Bellamy groan lightly on the other end of the line and she can’t help but ask.

“What are you doing, Bell?” her voice breathier than she intended.

“Trying to figure out how I’m going to survive you. You’re killing me,” Bellamy answers, his voice strained.

“Bell,” she drags out the syllables in her low tone.

“I’m keeping my hands out of my boxers, I swear. Just palming myself like you usually do when you’re trying to drive me crazy.”

Clarke lets her fingertips dip under the band of her panties, brushing her curls lightly as she thinks about Bellamy biting into her shoulder when she reaches into his boxers to wrap her fingers around him.

“You can, you know? Touch yourself,” Clarke mutters into the phone, her fingers hovering over her heat. She waits a few moments before pressing down lightly on her clit, “I am.”

Bellamy groans and it washes over Clarke, sending goosebumps over her skin. She presses small circles over her clit while her other hand stays on her breast, groping the swell softly. 

“Clarke.”

She hums inquisitively, her thumb swiping over her areola slowly.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Bellamy all but begs and Clarke would laugh if the plea in his voice didn’t send heat rushing to her core.

“I’m playing with my clit,” she mumbles into the phone, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. She wonders if he can hear it in her voice, because he pushes further.

“What about your other hand, babe?” His voice is a little more labored, probably from touching himself through the thin material of his boxers. 

She whines a little, her fingers squeezing into the soft skin of her breast at their own accord, before telling him—how her hands aren’t as big as his, or how the laced fabric feels so good rubbing over her nipples.

Clarke’s still rubbing at her clit, long circles that have her chest heaving, and she spreads her thighs further apart. She huffs into the phone when she has to stop to take off her panties. Bellamy groans when she tells him they’re somewhere across the room. He tells her she might as well take off the bra to, a smirk in his voice when he asks for photographic proof.

“I would, babe, but my hands are a little busy,” she teases, promising to think about it for next time. She imagines him lying down on his mediocre hotel bed, the starchy, white sheets a bright contrast to his smooth, brown skin. He’s probably touching himself by now, slow, tentative strokes as he listens to her moans, his cock out with the elastic of his boxers pulled down. “You better be naked, too,” Clarke whines, sounding petulant.

She hears shifting and some grumbling before Bellamy’s voice returns, “As you wish.”

Clarke dips a finger into her heat now, in need of more, hissing at the sensation. She groans when her finger doesn’t brush the spot his usually do, tweaking her nipple in frustration.

“God, Clarke, this feels so good,” Bellamy says, his groans matching the tugs at his cock. “I wish you were here, that you were around me right now. I miss your touch, your smell." He pauses, the silence filled with their heavy breathing. Bellamy finally continues, voice low and raw, “Your sweet cunt.”

Clarke clenches around her fingers as the hard, round word causes her skin to tingle and she whines at the empty feeling.

“Are you wet?” Bellamy asks. He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear her say it.

“So wet, so wet for you,” she almost laughs at the cliché, but  _fuck_ , she’s not wrong.

“Can I hear it?” he asks. Clarke’s eyebrows furrow as her fingers slow inside her. Bellamy continues, noticing her hesitation, “Can I hear how wet you are?”

Her faces rushes with heat, embarrassed at his vulgarity but also impossibly aroused. Clarke fumbles for words, words that refuse to come to her, her mind blanking when she thinks about Bellamy sitting on the other end of line, lying on his bed, his hand gripped around his cock, his eyes shut as he strokes himself to her sighs and moans, waiting for her to respond.

“Sure.” It’s practically a whisper and she’s not sure he can hear it, quickly taking the phone from her ear and moving it down her body. She looks away, cheek pressed into her pillow, as she lowers her phone down to her sex. Her thighs spread a little wider.

Her cheeks are a furious red, but she continues fingering herself, two fingers pushing in and out of her heat, making an almost shamefully obscene noise. She forgot to turn on speaker, but she can still hear Bellamy curse, ”Fuck.”

When Clarke can’t take it anymore, she brings the phone back up to her ear. She has nothing to say, just listens to Bellamy’s groans as he thrusts into his hand, dragging her fingers up and down her slit before circling her clit a few times. She moves back down to push her fingers back in.

“My fingers aren’t as long as yours,” she confesses to her phone. “They don’t reach that, that spot the way yours do.”

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy breathes. “I want to taste you.”

She shivers pathetically, biting down on her lip to stifle a whine.

“Will you taste for me? Taste yourself for me because I can’t?” Bellamy is asking, rambling off into the phone as he gets closer. Clarke can imagine how he twists his wrist at the base of his cock every few thrusts, cursing under his breath as he thinks about eating her out.

She contemplates for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing, but they both know she’ll do it for him—taste her cunt for him. Clarke hums a low  _mhmm_  before bringing her fingers up to her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the tips and groans.

“How do you taste? God, you taste perfect, Clarke. So perfect and sweet.”

Clarke isn’t partial to the taste, but when she thinks about the way Bellamy always licks his fingers clean when he’s done fucking her with his fingers or the way she can taste herself on his lips when he kisses her after he’s fucked her with his tongue, she pulls her fingers into her mouth. She groans as she sucks them clean, Bellamy rambling in the background.

With her fingers covered in her own saliva, Clarke fingers herself again, speeding up her pace, grinding her palm down against her clit until she’s sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. Bellamy is cursing on his end of the line, the frantic movement of his hand loud enough that she can hear a faint slapping of skin that has her moaning.

She’s thinking of the large vein that runs along his length, disappearing into the shiny tip of his cock, when he starts actually talking to her, the string of curse words and praises interrupted.

“I’m so close, Clarke,” and she hears him groan with the effort of holding back. She knows he doesn’t want to finish before her, wants to make sure she gets hers before he lets go. She almost wants to cry at the way she’s throbbing now, desperate for a release that seems just out of her reach.

Bellamy seems to know, her desperate whines and frustrated groans cluing him in. “Come on, baby. Almost there,” he’s whispering in a calming voice, the deep tones washing over her and tingling under her skin. She’s grinding up against her hand now, her phone shaking in her hand.

“Come for me, Clarke,” his voice rumbles, sounding a little broken as he keeps his own orgasm at bay.

One more rock against her hand and she’s tumbling over, her release spreading through her, relief filling her veins. She hears Bellamy come with a ragged moan, and her heart hurts when she thinks of the lazy grin that must be spreading across his face.

“Fuck,” Bellamy says again, elongating the vowel sound, sounding wrecked and content.

“Good?” Clarke asks weakly, her teeth worrying at her lip.

“Good? Great. God, I miss you.”

Clarke smiles at that. He’s only going to be gone for a few more weeks, maybe a month, but it’s too many more days without Bellamy filling the apartment. He’s missing from every room. His humming is absent from the kitchen in the morning when she makes herself breakfast—something he usually likes to do while Clarke sits on the counter and listens to him tell her about his dreams. He’s not in the living room lounging on the couch like usual, a book in hand and his reading glasses perched on his nose. He’s not in the bathroom, always taking too long staring at his unruly curls before ultimately deciding to do nothing about the mess. And he’s not in their bed, curled around her. His breath isn’t fanning her neck from behind, stirring her blonde curls. His arms aren’t wrapped around her. His lips aren’t pressing light kisses to her shoulder as she falls asleep.

“I hate sleeping alone,” she mumbles quietly. Her hand reaches out to run along the empty side of the bed— _his_ side. She closes her eyes, letting out a deep breath as tears well up.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m coming home as soon as I can,” he says, softened guilt evident in his voice. She knows he hates being away from her, but this really is an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. They’ve already had this conversation many times—how it’ll be a hard few months but they’re worth it.

“I’m counting down the days,” Clarke says with a watery smile. She yawns a few moments later, a few tears slipping down her cheeks that she quickly wipes away.

“I’ll stay on the line until you fall asleep, if you want,” Bellamy whispers, probably worried she’s not getting enough sleep without him being there to drag her to bed with him, reminding her she can finish her project in the morning, that she can worry about it later when the sun’s up.

Her heart warms as she turns onto her side, putting the phone on speaker and setting it next to her pillow. She hopes that if she closes her eyes, she may be able to imagine he’s actually lying there beside her.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she says as she gets comfortable, throwing her comforter over herself once she pulls on the big shirt she has tucked under Bellamy’s pillow— _his_ shirt. She imagines he’s doing the same, climbing under the crisp white sheets of his hotel bed, a soft smile on his face as he holds his phone to his ear.

She’s almost asleep when she hears the soft, “I love you.”

Clarke’s not sure if she says it back, drifting to sleep, but he knows she means it, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me on [tumblr](http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com) :))


End file.
